


Helping Hands

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Prostitution, Future winterironspider, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, STDs, Sort Of, established winteriron, it's complicated - Freeform, sick!Peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: While breaking into apartments, Bucky discovers a poor and sick Peter Parker. He brings him home to the tower. Winterironspider.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 52
Kudos: 220





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: Winterspider prompt if you're game! There's a meme about a poor college student being robbed; the robber, upon learning just h o w poor, stopping and giving the (empty) wallet back and being sincerely concerned. "You... you live like this?" What if the winter soldier/bucky barnes breaks into struggling college student Peter parker's apt and all his pre-serum steve instincts are triggered by the state of the place and how /tiny/ Peter is (abo/soulmates/soulmarks/werewolf au for spice up to you)

Bucky can pick a lock in ten seconds flat.

It’s a science: tension wrench goes into the keyhole, the slightest torque is applied, then his favorite pick—the Bogota with three rakes, as of late—goes in and he scrubs the hell out of it until the plug turns. Easy as fucking pie.

The hard part (and he’s not counting the _guilt_ , the _horror_ he would feel if Tony ever discovered how Bucky makes the money he uses to buy his lover trinkets) is scoping out the right apartments. He sticks to NYU residence halls, early mornings and late at nights because the security is usually lax enough to let him through without even checking his ID—if they ask? _Oh fuck, I left my wallet in my Uber. Maybe he hasn’t left yet, one sec_ —and then he’s out of there.

Today, it’s the Lafayette Hall between China Town and TriBeCa, reserved for graduate students seeking their Master’s Degrees in science fields.

It should be empty. On campus is an expo featuring innovators from Sphere Fluidics, Fasmatech, AcouSort, and NanoTemper Technologies which—according to the flier Bucky read online—are huge names in the science industry, all displaying their scientific discoveries from the last business year and scouting for fresh blood.

Any science major worth a shit will be there, he imagines. But it’s _mandatory_ for NYU grad students. Score. 

Content that the apartments will more than likely be empty, Bucky chooses the first hit at random after taking the elevator up: apartment 2B. It’s furthest away from the security camera at the other end of the hall—not that Bucky has ever left behind a reason for those cameras to be checked. It’s the principle of the thing, really. He keeps his back turned, hair in his face, both hands gloved (thank God it’s always cold and dreary in NYC, so his gloved hands don’t draw any attention) while he scrubs the lock. It takes him no longer than it might for anyone with a legitimate key, and then the door is open and he is in.

Bucky can see decently in the dark, the light from the hallway disappearing as the door is carefully closed behind him. Holding his breath, he stills himself, calls upon his enhanced senses, and listens: but there are no sounds coming from the apartment. Empty.

Then he actually takes in the place, and he realizes that that word fits in multiple ways.

The apartment is vacant, he thinks at first. There is the basic furniture all the NYU apartments come with: a refrigerator, a couch, a coffee table. But there is no television, no end tables. There are no curtains on the window across the room—and wow, what a lovely view of the brick building across the alley. The entire place smells musty and unused. Maybe it really is empty—

But no. Little signs of life appear. There are shoes by the door, ones that saw better days many, _many_ days ago. On the wall, a photograph is tacked there, unframed, of two boys on either side of a pretty, dark skinned girl. A plastic grocery sack is dangling off of the drawer handle of one kitchen cabinet, sagging with contents that he can’t make out through the opaque plastic.

Someone does live here, they’re just terrible at decorating.

With careful, silent steps, Bucky moves deeper into the apartment. He doesn’t bother looking for a wallet— _that_ will be with the owner—but usually there is money somewhere else. If he’s really lucky, he’ll find whatever he’s looking for.

Today, he wants blank CD’s. Last night, Tony showed him a movie where the teenage love interest burned—(“why’s it called that, Tony? You don’t burn the thing, do you?”)—a CD with love songs. It was real romantic shit; something Bucky never got to do. Something that he longs to do with this amazing man in his life. He can imagine the look on Tony’s face when he listens to a compilation of all the awesome music he’s introduced Bucky to, and it makes his heart race.

The Best Buy downtown sells a pack of five CD’s for $6.99 plus tax which brings the total to $7.61. That’s all that he needs. He could probably take that and more from any one of these apartments and the occupants would never notice. He isn’t hurting anyone. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

Then—jackpot. On the counter is a line of change: neat stacks of quarters and dimes, taller piles of nickels and pennies. Palming it, he cups one hand under the counter and slides the coins home into his hand. A quick count tells him that it’s just $2.30. It’s probably change for the vending machines downstairs, maybe fare for the bus. Nothing that will break this grad student’s bank.

For a moment he contemplates leaving the apartment. He’s almost got a third of what he needs for the CD’s. But breaking into another apartment just escalates the risks he takes, unnecessarily so when the rest of the money could very well be in the bedroom or even in the pocket of some jeans resting on the bathroom floor. No. He’ll press on.

Walking silently, he brings up the floorplan of the apartments in his mind (NYU had all that shit online; didn’t they know how unsafe it was? This world made information so available). The bedroom is on the left, past the kitchen. In the dim light through the window, he can see the door, open, a dark gaping mouth that he slips through soundlessly. It is even darker here, and he stands still waiting for his eyes to adjust further. It’d be no good to go fumbling around in the dark, knocking into furniture.

It only took moments, but as soon as he could make out dim shapes, he heard it. A little whimper. The rustling of sheets. Everything in him went still except for the blood in his veins, propelled by his furiously pounding heart. _Someone is here_. Bucky broke into an _occupied_ apartment. He is standing in the doorway to a bedroom and _there is someone sleeping in the bed._

He gets a glimpse before he can slink back into the living room, and what he sees stops him in his tracks. It is a boy—or a very small man, perhaps, considering these apartments are for graduate students only. The boy is wearing just a pair of boxers, some dark color—red or navy or even black, perhaps, since colors are distorted in this low light—but there is no hiding or distorting how thin he is. The shadows between his ribs are little valleys to the pale, jutting mountains of bone, rising with his fast, shallow breaths. The collarbones protrude, limbs fine-boned and so skinny that Bucky could probably wrap his fingers around an entire ankle or bicep. His face is smushed against one pillow so features are indistinguishable, but the mop of messy curls on top is unmistakable.

There is no bed. There is no bedframe, no mattress, no box spring. A pile of threadbare blankets and sheets are entwined into a makeshift nest, like the kid is some little bird.

After taking in the sights, he takes in the smell. It’s strong—damp and musty, like the windows have never been opened. The pungent scent of sweat. The overly sweet scent of cough syrup, though the two bottles on the nightstand are upended and empty.

Mostly, the acrid smell of sickness. A bucket is beside the bed, and the smell of vomit gets stronger the closer he comes— _why_ is Bucky walking forward? He should be walking _away_ , far, far away.

The boy whimpers again, rolling onto his back more. Sweat coats his skin, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest is even more pronounced in this position, tummy a hollow little thing. This boy is sick, very sick from the smell and the heat that Bucky can feel when he places his hand above the boy’s head, hovering over the skin.

“Ben!” The boy shrieks. Bucky jerks away and nearly topples the trash bin of vomit. His heart is pounding, thinking _I’m so sorry Tony, so sorry that I’m going to get caught and get arrested and that you’re the only person in the world I’ll have to call, and if you don’t want to bail me out I’ll understand, I really will_ —but the boy sleeps on, lips moving. He is dreaming the feverish dreams of the sick.

Carefully, Bucky stands. He backs from the room. On his way out, he takes in more details even if he doesn’t want to: a name-badge for the building and NYU campus (which he takes, which he should have seen on his way in and known that it would be wherever the student was—complacent, he’s gotten too fucking complacent), the silver duct tape on the bottom of the kid’s shoes which holds them together. The past-due notices on the refrigerator. The paper plate resting in the sink, plastic cutlery that has been washed and re-used countless times. The kid is poor. So fucking poor.

And he can’t help that it reminds him of another sickly poor boy from nearly a hundred years ago. He remembers it like it was yesterday, fuzzy memories that Princess Shuri helped turn clear: a thin pale Captain America, the chest-deep coughs that would rattle his whole frame when he was sick, sitting by his best friend’s side through the night just to mop his brow and make sure he didn’t choke on his own sick. His stomach aches, twisting inside out with phantom hunger pains. Stepping into that apartment made him feel like he’d entered a time machine back to the Great Fucking Depression.

Another thought comes: what if the kid needs a fucking ambulance? What if he’s in there, brain frying from his fever? What if he throws up and aspirates? That will be on Bucky. There’s no way that he can walk away from this—not if it could add an(other) life, like a notch, to his murderous bedpost.

Palms sweating, he looks down at the badge he left with. Peter B. Parker. It’s a cute name—Bucky’s always had sort of a thing for alliteration. The picture of the kid is shy with the closed-lip smile and the rampant curls falling onto his forehead. He was skinny to begin with, but not malnourished like he is now. The badge will let him come in through the back doors. Because apparently he is planning on coming back.

Bucky pulls out his cellphone, mostly unused, and makes a call. While he talks, he takes the stairs down so that he doesn’t lose the call in the elevator.

Tony picks up on the second ring. “Hey Bucky, everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” In the background he can hear the sound of a door closing, and Tony’s voice grows more familiar, softer and more comfortable. He must have been around company but left.

“You only ever call if you’re about to break the law,” Tony says fondly.

Is he really so predictable? Well, in this case, he’s _already_ broken the law, though that’s hardly a point that he wants to make. “No. it’s—nothing like that. I was just wondering about the credit card you gave me.”

“Oh? Thinking about blowing the dust off it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. He hates it—hates being like the other million people in Tony’s life who just take his money. The fear that this man who has helped Bucky salvage himself, salvage the will to live life, to carve out a life he wants to live…the fear that he’ll think Bucky is just with him for the _money_ is unconquerable. Tony gave him the leather wallet and the credit card years ago, and Bucky has never once used it. “Just a bit. Twenty dollars. Thirty at the _most_ , Tony, and I swear I’ll pay you back—”

“Hey, hey, no need for the freaking out. Mi dinero es su dinero, polar bear. Buy whatever you need.” He pauses. “Are you in any trouble? I don’t know if you need me to emphasize this, but there’s probably no trouble you can imagine that I can’t get a person out of.”

“I’m not in trouble,” he says, hoping Tony doesn’t notice the unconscious inflection on the word _I’m_. “But I’ll remember that. I promise.”

“Okay. Great. That’s all I need to hear. Thai, tonight?”

Bucky can’t help but smile. He pushes open the back door to the building and steps out into the street, angling his face away from the security camera at the alley entrance on instinct. The wind is blistery, whipping his hair around his face. “I’ll be there.”

Tony hums. “I can hardly wait.”

They exchange declarations of love and say goodbye. Bucky feels a little choked up, how he always feels after hearing Tony say that he loves him. His eyes sting—but that’s just the wind. Honest. Down the street is a pharmacy and Bucky ducks in, head down. There’s an entire aisle for cold medicines, and he takes far too long examining all the bottles. Thank God there are ones that seem to treat everything: headaches, fever, nausea, cough. Everything except for the kid’s destitution.

He sees the chicken noodle soup and he grabs some of that as well.

Checking out is awkward; Bucky slides the card upside down at first. Then he’s unsure: credit or debit? He clicks credit since it’s first, but then he has to sign and he has a new dilemma. Should he forge Tony’s signature or put down his own? The card has his name on it, but it’s Tony’s money. In the end, he writes his own name. Forging feels too…familiar.

With less than twenty dollars spent, he trudges back down the block to the apartment building, and it isn’t until he’s swiping the key to get into the back door that he realizes he has no fucking idea what he’s going to do. Knock on the kid’s door? _Hey, I broke in earlier and saw you were sick and out of medicine, here’s some. I’ll put the change I stole back on the counter. Sorry to fucking bother you?_

Bucky Barnes, former assassin for Hydra, absolute _dumbass_.

Absolute persistent dumbass. Because he knocks on the door. He really fucking does. And when no one answers, he knocks again and again until he hears movement on the other side of the door (a chest-rattling cough that makes him shudder) then the door is cracked open and a bloodshot, honey-brown eye is staring out at him.

“Hi,” Peter croaks. His voice is wrecked, and it immediately does things to Bucky. Things that are wrong, especially considering that his voice isn’t croaky because of a cock nudging too persistently at the back of his throat, but because he is fucking _sick_. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to help _you_ ,” Bucky says. Peter’s eyebrows furrow. It’s cute. He’s wearing a shirt that is far too large for him, and pajama pants so long they slip down past the backs of his heels. “I’m—visiting one of your neighbors down the hall. You’re keeping everyone up with your cough, kid. I brought you some medicine.”

Peter opens the door wider, so that Bucky is seeing all of him instead of just a two-inch section. He rests against the doorframe because he’s swaying, struggling to keep on his feet, and he is so tiny, so, _so_ tiny. The smell of him is foul, but Bucky would never mention it. “Gosh,” Peter says, and Bucky is horrified to see tears, real fucking tears fill his eyes. “I didn’t know I was keepin’ everybody up.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky says. People say that, sometimes, to horses that are likely to buck off their rider or men who pull out guns in gas stations. Bucky figures that he should probably use either of those situations as reference for what to do now, because how to comfort a crying kid was not in the Winter Soldier’s repertoire. “Don’t shoot.” Fuck. Try again. “I mean—it’s not your fault. You’re sick. Obviously.”

Fat tears roll down Peter’s cheeks. It impedes his breathing even more, until Bucky is afraid that he’s going to choke on his own phlegm. When he speaks, he tries to keep his voice even and clear through his hitching breaths. The shirt slips off his shoulder, bones protruding. “I-I-I know. It hit m-me a-all of the sudden. But now it won’t go away.”

“Have you tried going to the doctor?”

Peter’s smile is downright tragic. He looks like he wants to reach out and pat Bucky on the cheek, call him a sweet summer child, ask him what pipe he smoked to have such a dream. “I d-don’t have insurance. I’m still trying to p-pay off my debt from last year when I had my tonsils removed.”

“And they—what—they won’t treat you? Just because you needed treating once before? They’re fucking doctors!”

“I know,” Peter whines, rubbing a wrist at his leaking nose. The door opens even wider. “Would you like to come in?”

Bucky sees the irony. He really does. A half hour ago, he was in this apartment robbing the kid. Now he’s standing at the kitchen counter watching Peter make ramen noodles (“my aunt always said that when someone is in your house, you should treat them like they live there”). He nearly burns his hand on the pan, and that’s when Bucky moves to take over, stirring when appropriate, adding a packet of flavoring. Peter pulls one bowl down from the cabinet—the cabinet that is unbearably empty from the quick glimpse Bucky gets of it.

“I only have one bowl, I’m sorry,” Peter says, face red, eyes downcast. His hands shake while he ladles the soup and noodles in. He gives Bucky one of the plastic spoons—it’s clean, he knows—but the whole thing is so fucking _sad_. When Peter glances over the counter, muttering something about some missing _rent_ money, that’s it. That’s it for Bucky.

_I’m taking him home with me_ , he thinks, nudging his spoon against the noodles in his bowl.

“I’m Peter, by the way,” the kid introduces himself. Then his face goes white, shaking intensifies. “Excuse me.”

Bucky hears him vomiting even through the walls between them. There isn’t much to come up, but the retching lasts forever it seems, the boy dissolving back into tears. Instinct says to go to him, but Bucky doesn’t want to be anymore of a fucking creep than he already is. When the vomiting turns to coughing and then to gasping, Bucky decides fuck it. He _is_ a fucking creep. But he’s not going to let the kid pass out and crack open his head.

Peter is in the bathroom, bowed over the toilet, curls matting to his forehead with his fever. Bucky goes through drawers until he finds a washcloth and wets it from the sink, the water stinking of iron, to at least dab at the back of the kid’s neck. He shivers, but sighs into it, his wheezing breaths slowing.

When at last he leans back, his cheeks are red and wet. “Thanks,” he croaks. Bucky just mops at his forehead, avoiding the comical look of relief and pleasure on his face.

“You need a doctor.”

“Can’t afford it,” Peter mutters, reaching out to flush the toilet. Bucky practically carries him back to the kitchen-living room combo, setting him down on the threadbare couch.

“I’ll pay,” Bucky says. Then he winces—because it isn’t really _his_ money. It’s Tony’s money. How can he just promise Tony’s money to this kid? But _he_ can pay Tony back. No matter how long it takes or how hard he has to work. He’s got decades and decades left to live. He’ll spend them all trying to repay Tony’s kindness and love as it is. What is this one extra debt?

“What?” Peter asks, his eyes glassy with fever. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“A trip to the doctor costs hundreds of dollars, not to mention if I’m really sick, I’ll need medicine which will cost even more. I’m not taking that kind of money from you.”

“I’m rich,” he half-lies.

Peter looks him up and down, the worn boots, the soft but unremarkable jeans, the gloves that he’s still wearing even though they are indoors. While he doesn’t look destitute, the idea comes across loud and clear: Bucky sure doesn’t fucking look rich.

He sighs. “Fine. It’s my boyfriend. He’s rich.”

“You want me to take your boyfriend’s money? I’m— _what_? I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Bucky,” says Bucky. “And my boyfriend is Tony Stark.”

Peter’s mouth clicks shut. His eyes clear a little, the name cutting through the sickness. “Tony Stark.”

“Yeah.”

“The billionaire.”

Bucky can feel himself smile against his will. “Genius, billionaire, philanthropist, superhero. Yeah, he’s the one.”

Peter reaches out and puts his burning hand against Bucky’s forehead. “Maybe you’re the one who is sick,” he teases weakly.

“I’m serious,” Bucky says. He pulls out his phone and Googles it—hopes the kid doesn’t see the tab of Lafayette Hall dorm room floor plans that was previously open. Then he brings up the tabloids. He and Tony aren’t in the news as often as they were years ago when they first started leaving the Tower together to do couple-things, but the articles last forever. There’s a nice one detailing all about Tony’s promiscuous love life, how everyone thought the bisexual ways of his youth were just a phase. Until Bucky.

The pictures are clear. Peter’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “You’re dating Tony Stark. Oh my god. I’m—I’m his biggest fan. Oh my god. I think I’m going to pass out. I’ve—” the kid goes red as a beet, “I’ve had a crush on him since I was like, like _this_ tall.”

Judging by the height of his hand when he holds it up, Peter’s been harboring his crush on Tony since _ever_. And yeah, Bucky gets it. His lips can’t help but quirk upwards—Peter is so fucking cute, even with he way his cheeks are hollow, eyes sunken. He lights up when he talks about Tony. Bucky is the same way. Tony inspires that in people.

“I’ll pay for you to go to the doctor. See? I can afford it.”

Peter gnaws at his lower lip. “But _why_? I don’t get it. Because I’m keeping everyone on the floor up? That doesn’t—this is weird.”

“Because you remind me of someone I used to know. My best friend, from when I was a kid. He’s—he’s not around now. But you two would have gotten along well, I think. And he would’ve kicked me in the ass if he knew I just walked away when I knew you need help.” He can see the indecision on the kid’s face, the wavering teeter-totter of what he wants to say ( _yes yes yes_ ) versus what he thinks he should say ( _no, but thank you_ ). Bucky has an ace up his sleeve: “Why don’t you come back to the Tower with me? Meet Tony. He’ll tell you all this himself.”

“I couldn’t!” Peter nearly shrieks. He coughs, and Bucky waits patiently for him to finish.

“You could. You totally could. You will. I’ll call a car—”

“Oh my god,” Peter whispers under his breath, his whole tiny body going lax and weak like a woman from Victorian times, likely to swoon at any moment. Where are Bucky’s smelling salts? “Oh my god,” he says, soft and to himself. “I’m going to meet Tony Stark.”

Bucky can’t help it. He grins, pats awkwardly at the kid’s shoulder—and Jesus, he’s a tiny little thing, still burning up under Bucky’s grip. “He’s going to be thrilled to meet you.”

-

Peter insists on showering and changing his clothes. Bucky steps out into the hallway to call Tony back and warn him—and ask him to send Happy or one of the self-driving cars. Anything to avoid taking a cab or the subway.

“Twice in one day,” Tony says when he picks up the phone, forgoing a greeting. “Aren’t I a lucky man?”

“I’m the lucky man, ‘s far as I can tell,” Bucky says lowly. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine Tony’s expression, the ridiculous fond face he makes when he looks at Bucky. “I had a favor to ask of you, though. A big one.”

“Anything for you, frosted flake.”

“Send a car to the address that I text you? And—order Thai for three?”


	2. Chapter 2

Tony stands lounging against the back of the sofa, watching the elevator doors. FRIDAY alerted him moments ago that Bucky and his guest had entered the building—those are the exact words she used. _Bucky and his guest_. He finds himself drumming his fingers against his legs, filled to the brim with fizzing carbon bubbles of energy. They’ve been dating for two years now, and Bucky has never brought anyone back to the Tower. He’s tempted to ask FRIDAY to bring up video feed, to get a glimpse of whoever Bucky is bringing home, but the elevator is rising, rising.

“Here, boss,” FRIDAY warns, soft, redundant.

“Quiet from here on out, baby girl,” he reminds her. She doesn’t respond.

Then the doors open.

His eyes go to Bucky first. He can’t help that. Tony will never get enough of him, spends an embarrassing amount of time staring out of the corner of his eye (or unashamedly when the other man is sleeping). Bucky’s hair is past his chin, wind-swept and tangled. He’s dressed casually with his dark jeans and t-shirt—Tony’s, it’s Tony’s t-shirt, he notes with a burst of warmth in his chest—his gloves on, the soft leather ones that Tony had custom made. He stance is guarded, from the low eyebrows to the hunched shoulders.

Tony glances down to the figure at his side and sees why.

It’s a boy, man, maybe, anywhere from sixteen to twenty-six, if Tony had to take a guess. The sad, tired eyes belie the youthful features, so it’s difficult to tell a specific age. He’s petite to an extreme (sickness? Tony wonders. _Cancer_?), dressed in what appears to be the common man’s version of his Sunday best—dress slacks, a collared, long sleeve shirt with cuffs that gape around his tiny wrists. Paleness verges on sallowness, skin tinged faintly green, lips faint white. But he’s handsome: sharp features, if a little too gaunt, dark eyes and dark curls that are still damp from a shower, or maybe the rain on the way over.

Then he spots it: the hero worship. The kid has stars in his eyes. Tony can spot a fan at fifty paces, the slack mouths, the wide eyes, the _oh my god, you’re Iron Man_! And it gets him, gets him like a knife between the ribs. He loves the praise. It flatters him, it waters his ego (which isn’t ever flourishing the way the press makes it out to be).

Coming from the right person, it makes his cock hard.

Tony knows he cuts quite a figure, even in his sweatpants, socked-feet, and tee. His hair is un-styled, soft the way Bucky likes it. He’s wearing the blue-tinted glasses that contain his latest AI, his latest baby—but he’s always wearing those these days, even when he doesn’t have EDITH active. He must look soft, relaxed, alien, because the kid looks like he’s seeing something from outer space and not upper Manhattan.

“Hey, cupcake,” Tony says, hands in his pockets, watching Bucky nearly carry the kid out of the elevator. His face is white as a sheet, mouth quivering. “Who’s this?”

“This is—” That’s as far as Bucky makes it before the kid swoons. His eyes roll, body going lax, a puppet with the strings cut. Bucky, quicker reflexes, catches him before his head can hit the tiled floor. Kneeling with the boy in his arms, Bucky gives a tentative smile that looks more like a grimace. “—Peter. He’s sick.”

Tony clutches his heart. “And here I thought it was just my influence. FRIDAY, diagnostics please. Give me some biometrics.”

“Scanning, boss.” Peter’s eyelids flutter at the disembodied female voice, but even if he is regaining consciousness, Tony doesn’t think he’ll remember it.

“Send it to E, Fri.”

No response, but the words appear in front of his eyes. Sex: male presenting. BMI: _16_. Which is—yeah, that’s too fucking low. Temperature: 102.8 degrees Fahrenheit. His girl manages to narrow the age from 20 to 24, and she has more. The information goes on and on: he’s sick with the flu, it looks like, but now it has blossomed into the beginnings of pneumonia. Evidence of long-term vitamin deficiencies. A heart murmur—probably benign _._

_Gonorrhea._

“I got medicine for him,” Bucky says, holding up the pharmacy bag. There’s where Bucky used his card, then. “He took some in the car on the way over, and didn’t cough so much after that.”

“He’s got pneumonia, cupcake. Nothing over the counter will help that. It won’t help his gonorrhea either.”

“He’s got _VD_?”

Tony hums. “Can I ask what he’s doing on my four-thousand dollar leather sofa?”

“He’s sick,” Bucky says. “I thought you could help.”

“How’d you two know each other?”

“We met today.”

“How?”

“I—don’t want to say.”

Tony softens. Bucky’s skills of deception are honed enough that he could have lied without Tony being the wiser. In the beginning of their relationship, it was a serious problem: Bucky hiding things from Tony that he was worried would upset him. It’s taken a long time for him to know that he can keep secrets if he wants to, that telling Tony _I don’t want to say_ would, under most circumstances, be enough to end the line of questioning.

“Alright. But I feel obliged to say this: there’s no legal way you could have met that I would blink an eye at.”

It’s Bucky who blinks, once, long and slow.

“ _You met illegally?”_

“You’re getting very good at reading me,” Bucky says. Which is nice of him, considering there are still days where his lover seems like a closed book to him. “Could we, like, get him a doctor? Do you have a doctor who makes house calls? Do doctors make those, these days?”

“I’m rich enough to afford one,” Tony says. “And luckily, I have a very discreet one on container. Fri, ask Bruce to come by. Tell him it’s an emergency and to bring whatever he needs to treat pneumonia and gonorrhea—God, I wish I could see the look on his face when you tell him that. FRIDAY, take an image capture of Bruce’s face. Don’t think I didn’t notice you sidestepping the question, either, mister. We talked about your extracurricular activities—”

“I couldn’t leave him there, Tony,” says Bucky, voice tortured. “He’s sick, and he’s got no food, no health insurance. I don’t want him to go back there.”

While they’re waiting for Bruce, Tony wets a rag to put on Peter’s burning forehead. His eyes flutter, and he is looking less pale—no chance he’ll be out much longer. “Here’s a list of things that are acceptable for you to bring home with you: stray dogs, some of those pastries from that cafe we love, a downright _egregious_ number of sex toys–actually, a few of those things I would even encourage you to bring home. But Bucky, baby, a stray _human_ is not on that list.”

“I know that, but he–” Bucky cuts off.

“Yes?” Tony prompts. He lifts a hand, slow, fingers still damp from the washrag to tuck some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. It’s getting longer and longer these days, and the other man doesn’t trust any professional to cut it. That leaves Tony for the job: Bucky shirtless in their bathroom, hair damp, split ends being carefully trimmed to rain down around their bare feet.

“He reminds me of Steve,” Bucky admits. “Before the serum. Small, and sick, and with a heart bigger than his stomach. I didn’t turn away then, and I can’t turn away now.”

Steve isn’t a name they mention often, not since Thanos. For Bucky to bring it up now shows how serious he is for this. How much it means to him. That’s all Tony needs to hear to be sold. He’d give Bucky the moon, if he could.

“My sugar baby wants a sugar baby,” Tony sighs fondly. “What does that make _me_?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “A sugar granddaddy?”

Peter stirs. His eyes open, bloodshot, tender, honey-tinted eyes. They get wide again when they see Tony kneeling by the couch he’s resting on. He holds out a shaking hand, palm down, like he wants Tony to kiss his knuckles. “Mr. Stark,” he breathes, tongue thick and clumsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Behind him, Bucky snorts, the softest exhalation against his neck. Tony reaches out and takes the burning grip in both of his own hands. Peter is short for a man, certainly underweight, and though he has long fingers, they are thin and spindly, swallowed whole by Tony’s larger, tanned hands. The size difference between them makes him swallow—the size difference between Peter and _Bucky_? It’s—indecent. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, call me Peter, _please_ ,” he says. The softness, the earnestness charms Tony.

“Peter, then.”

A coughing fit comes on, lasting until the younger man’s face is red and tears are at the corners of his eyes. Tony fetches him some water that he sips at. He blinks like he’s trying to focus his eyes. “Did I faint?”

“Gracefully, if it makes you feel any better. Welcome to Stark Tower, kid. Sorry the experience has been less than ideal.”

The younger man gives a dopey smile—more than likely high off of whatever he took in the car. “The only way it could have been better is if you’d caught me, sir.”

Tony fights to keep his twitching lips from blooming into a downright grin. Bucky’s face is red, the only indication that he’s holding back laughter. “I’m sorry to say that my days of being quick enough to catch _damoiseaux_ in distress are about ten years behind me. Luckily, Bucky was here to act as my hands. Trust me, kid, he’s got nicer biceps to cling to anyway.”

“Oh, I noticed that when he helped me to the car,” Peter says, craning his head back to wave frailly at Bucky behind the couch. Seeing Bucky wave back, stiff and straight faced, is a sight Tony will cherish for many years to come.

The elevator opens. Bruce is there with his bag in hand. He looks like a man who is about to face the gallows—but at the sight of Peter sitting on the couch with the half-empty glass of water in his hands, his eyebrows raise. This could hardly be what he was expecting when FRIDAY told him to come to the penthouse floor.

“Hello,” he says carefully stepping into the room. “Someone rang?”

“Bruce!” Tony rises on creaking joints to greet the man. The warm hug takes the younger man by surprise based on the way he tenses, returning it hesitantly. Tony says under his breath: “He doesn’t know he has the clap, and he wouldn’t understand how _I_ know. Proceed with caution.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Bruce mutters, patting Tony awkwardly.

“Oh, you know how it goes. In for a penny, in for a pound.” Then, louder: “Peter, this is Dr. Bruce Banner. Bruce, this is Peter Parker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Banner,” Peter slurs. He’s looking remarkably like a damsel with the way he’s lounging on the sofa, the back of his hand pressed to the cloth on his forehead. “Call me Pete.”

“You’re not looking well, Pete. Under the weather?”

“Uh-huh. ‘ve got the flu.”

Bucky and Tony stand back while Bruce pokes and prods the kid, taking his temperature, listening to his heart and lungs, interrogating him about his symptoms, medical history, and current medications. He examines the bottle of cold medicine that Peter drank from on the way over, face serious and stern. His diagnosis only backs up FRIDAY’s findings: atypical pneumonia, something _most_ people Peter’s age would have been able to fight off alone.

“I’m prescribing an antibiotic to help you along,” Bruce says.

“Oh, I can’t afford that,” says Peter.

“It’s on the house,” Tony calls from where he and Bucky are setting the table for three. “Consider it complimentary—like the bottles of shampoos at hotels. Bruce, are you joining us? It’s Thai.”

“No, thank you,” Bruce says without offering an excuse. He packs up his back but leaves the antibiotic on the solid fiberglass coffee table. If Peter wonders why Bruce already had the antibiotic on him, he doesn’t question it, just stares at the bottle looking a little glossy-eyed. Bruce gives Tony a pointed glance. “That there is azithromycin, which could clear up a _wide_ _range_ of illnesses. But Peter should still be seen by a doctor who can perform a thorough examination. Understand?”

“Understood.” Tony salutes. He owes the younger man one; actually, a million _ones_ , considering how many sticky situations Bruce has gotten him out of over the years. With nothing but a tense smile, Bruce sees himself to the elevator. Once he is gone, they turn their attention to the young man on the couch who is cradling the bottle of medicine to his chest like a drunkard might the bottle. “Hey Peter. Are you hungry? Do you like Thai?”

“Starving,” Peter says. “And I’m not picky, I’d eat anything. But you don’t have to go through any extra trouble for me, Mr. Stark. I’m just honored to be here.”

“No trouble at all,” Tony insists. “The food is already here. I hope that someone eats it, lest it go to waste. Need help making it to the table, kiddo? Bucky here makes an excellent chariot. Quite the ride.”

The look Bucky gives him might send a lesser man cowering: the perfect mixture of scathing and unamused. But when Peter does nothing but sigh and say, _I’ll bet_ , the former assassin gets distinctly red around the ears. And that is an interesting development, in all of this. It isn’t a stretch that Peter would be attracted to Bucky (anyone with eyes would be), but for the first time, Tony wonders if Bucky’s interest in Peter isn’t entirely platonic.

Peter stumbles on the way to the table, giggles, buzzing off of the cough syrup he drank on the way over. Bucky is nothing short of a gentleman, stiffly helping Peter to a chair, offering him first servings from all of the boxes of takeout. Tony makes a note to himself: no funny business. The kid isn’t in his right mind—even on his best days, he’s obviously vulnerable. As cute as he is, the idea of the kid as prey turns Tony off entirely.

Over dinner, they make small talk. Peter and Tony do, that is. Bucky listens, thoughtful and solemn while he fills and clears his plate twice. A few times, he smiles, when Peter does something absolutely goofy—like missing his mouth with the fork and smearing food on his cheek—and the look he gives Tony is so fond, a shake of his head, like he’s known Peter all his life and is telling Tony, _Get a load of this kid, always so silly._

“Bucky tells me money is tight for you,” Tony feels comfortable enough to bring up after the plates are cleared, boxes are emptied, all of them reclining back in their seats, bellies full and sated.

Peter looks sleepy, eyes half-closed. He nods. “It is. I applied to NYU when my aunt and uncle were still alive. They said they’d help me pay for it, since my parents weren’t alive to help themselves. I got a scholarship that was going to do the rest, and everything seemed great my first few semesters. Then they passed away. I tried the work-study program, but there are limits on how many hours they’ll work students. So I worked a few other jobs too—but it just made everything worse. My grades slipped and I lost my scholarship.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters. “You’re one unlucky kid.”

“Look—Peter. It’s no secret that I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. Bucky here has taken a liking to you—” Peter gives a soft _aww_ , looking so tender and touched “—I hope that you’ll let me help you out with some expenses. Get you back on your feet and focusing on your studies. How does that sound?”

Peter hums, one hand resting on his rounded stomach. “Mr. Stark—it sounds like a dream. Honestly. I’ve had like, three different dreams with hot older—uh—wait— _what_ was I saying—”

“No, please, go on.”

“I just mean—I want to say yes.” His face grows serious, the thin, pretty mouth down-turned, a furrow between his eyebrows. “Not having any money—being poor, I guess—it’s really hard. And I know that I’m luckier than a lot of people. At least I’m not sleeping on the street. At least I’ve got, got _clothes_ and stuff, you know. At least Mr. Rumlow lets me suck him off in exchange for rent. But my aunt and uncle, they didn’t raise me to—”

“Sorry, Pete, let’s back up,” Tony says. On his respective side of the table, Bucky has stiffened. He sits, stoic, hands clenched into fists on his lap, staring down at his empty plate. His jaw is a sharp enough weapon without it being clenched tightly enough to grind his teeth. Tony works hard to keep his own expression neutral and unalarmed, even though he feels nothing short of horrified. “Who is Mr. Rumlow?”

“Mr. Rumlow is the super. He runs the Lafayette Hall.”

“And you’ve got an arrangement with him.”

Peter hums, nodding. He coughs a little, and they wait, still like statues for him to continue. “I was late one month with rent. Single room apartments are so expensive. Mr. Rumlow was real understanding, though.”

Bucky gets up, chair screeching against the floor. He mutters some excuse and stalks to the balcony, opening the doors and stepping out into the wind. It’s starting to mist, and Bucky looks like a phantom haunting the building, a handsome gargoyle dressed in black, hair dripping, standing perfectly still with his hands on the railing. No doubt with his enhanced senses, he can still hear their conversation, but at least with his face turned towards the city, he can react however he needs to.

“It sounds like it,” Tony says, heart clenching. “Is that—something you _like_?”

“What’s not to like?” Peter asks. Something about this must be reaching through his drug induced fog, because his eyes are a little wider and more alert; perhaps, the haze of the cough syrup is fading. He sits up a litter straighter in his chair. “Free _rent_ , Mr. Stark.”

“I mean to ask (and forgive me, kid, tactfulness is not in my DNA) if you’d engage Mr. Rumlow that way without the—ah— _benefits_.”

“Probably not,” Peter says. He looks down at his dress pants. The knees of his khakis are faded, worn, and he rubs at the spot anxiously. “He’s not really my type. But sometimes it does make me feel less lonely. Is that bad?”

It’s terrible. It’s heartbreaking. It’s illegal in New York. It’s immoral—the nerve of a person to take advantage of another’s financial vulnerability and coax them into prostitution—it makes Tony want to explode. But that’s not going to benefit Peter.

And that’s certainly not how Tony is going to get even with this Mister Rumlow. “No,” Tony says, soft. “I don’t think that’s bad.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, blinking slowly. “Could you call me a cab? I’m—I think I’m about to fall asleep on your table. It’s a nice table though. I’m sure it’d be very comfortable.”

“I’m sure that it wouldn’t, kid. I could call you a cab if you want. We’ve also got spare rooms here at the Tower, though. Why don’t you stay here tonight, take your first round of antibiotics and stick around for Bruce to be close by in case you need him?”

Peter turns pink, tickled at the offer. “You’ve already been so nice—I couldn’t—"

“You could. Like the Thai food, kid—if you aren’t enjoying those organic cotton sheets, then no one is. In the morning, we can talk more over breakfast. How do you feel about waffles?”

That sells him. The kid already looks hungry. “Alright. If you insist. Is Mr. Bucky okay? He’s been gone for a minute.”

“Mr.—” Tony laughs long and loud, unable to stop himself even as Peter’s face turns red. Out on the balcony, Bucky hunches over, and Tony thinks that maybe he’s laughing too. Smiling at least. Because the kid really is too fucking cute. “You can just call him Bucky. Formalities make him nervous. How about we check out the meds Bruce set you up with and then find you a room?”

“Sounds great,” Peter says. He’s the picture of contentment. “But I don’t have any way to repay you for all this, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony, kid. And don’t worry about it; I’m not looking for reimbursement.”

“I could suck you off,” Peter says, a little breathless. Coy, looking up at Tony through his eyelashes—only, no, that’s not coyness, it’s _shyness_. And instead of turning him on, the offer makes his heart break. “It works for Mr. Rumlow.”

“That doesn’t work for me, kid. Thanks, but no thanks.” He helps Peter out the chair, but with food in him, still feeling the benefits of the medicine he took, he is much steadier. Once he’s sure that the kid won’t tip out, Tony gives him space. He feels like a creep, thinking how adorable the kid is when obviously other people have seen it to—and abused it.

“In the morning, can I put peanut butter on my waffles?” Peter asks.

“You can put caviar on your waffles for all I care, kid.”

“I’ll stick with the peanut butter, thanks.”

After Peter has taken his first dose of antibiotics (and spent several long minutes ooo-ing and aww-ing over the guest room), he asks if he could speak to Bucky for a moment. Bucky is still on the balcony, soaked and unmoving. If he hears Peter ask, he doesn’t show it. Tony waves him ahead, standing back far enough that he knows he’ll have no chance at overhearing. Let Pete have his privacy.

Bucky is pale and solemn when he turns, blinking rain out of his eyes. The railing is twisted where he hands have been, but Tony doesn’t think that Peter notices. They exchange brief words, and then Peter hugs Bucky, wrapping thin arms around Bucky’s waist, resting his head against Bucky’s broad chest. They look like yin and yang. It’s art, he thinks. FRIDAY, image capture, please. The tenderness with which Bucky lifts a hand to cradle the back of Peter’s head is—God. Tony loves him.

When Peter comes back in, Bucky is on his heels. Peter’s shirt is wet from where he pressed against Bucky, and his cheeks are flushed, maybe with returning fever. Maybe. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

“Goodnight, kid. You need anything, just step out of your room and shout. Bucky here is a light sleeper.”

That makes Peter’s face turn even pinker as he bobs a nod and then disappears into the guest room, closing the door behind him softly.

“Are we, like, fucked over this kid?” Tony asks, jerking a thumb towards the guest room.

Bucky just shakes his head, and that’s all the answer Tony needs.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter sleeps, Tony drinks, and Bucky plans murder.

It won’t be a difficult thing. It would be worse if Rumlow lived in the apartment building—Bucky has already been seen there, his figure on film. Not to mention that scrubbing surveillance tapes is an extra step in the plan that he doesn’t dare believe he can afford. When he killed for Hydra, he had Hydra’s resources at his disposal. His face, his DNA, his fingerprints had all been lost to time. Even if his face was caught on camera, it meant nothing.

And if he had been caught? Well, he’d had nothing to live for.

Times have changed. He’d surrendered himself to the US government, forsworn his previous life of crime (and it really wasn’t that hard, once they understood that most of that crime took place under brainwashing and threat of torture). But now people are watching him, even if his pictures weren’t ever released to the public thanks to the high-profile nature of his crimes. The government watches him. Not to mention he has a very good reason for wanting to stay out of prison: namely, a five-foot-nine reason with exquisite, eccentric facial hair.

Rumlow’s address is easy enough to find. He could go to any public library and search for it, and if he has to use more advanced technology, he’s sure that he could get his hands on it. Bucky doubts the man is rich enough to have any security that might hinder him. A motion detector camera? Cake. Those home security systems? No problem. Not for the Winter—

“Bucky.”

Tony’s voice has Bucky jerking away from the window where he was resting his forehead, letting it cool his feverish skin. When he turns, he softens: Tony looks so good, so cozy in his pajamas, EDITH off and on the coffee table, his scotch glass empty. He won’t refill it either, just indulges in small amounts and only on occasion—

“Let’s talk reconnaissance,” says Bucky.

Tony’s eyebrows rise. “Reconnaissance?”

“No—you’re right. Let’s talk method. Anything that will make it like an accident is preferable, but outright murder isn’t so difficult to get away with either. I’ve got three different handguns that aren’t registered, it’s dealer’s choice really—”

“I’m sorry cupcake, you have _what_? Never mind, please don’t repeat it—FRI, shut down surveillance on this room for a bit and scrub your tapes from the last, oh, two hours.” Tony takes his hand, and the man’s hands are cold. Bucky knows the saying, cold hands, warm heart. Bucky’s own hands are warm. What does that mean for him, he wonders? “Bucky. James. Will you sit? Sit with me.”

They sit. Tony draws the larger man against him and Bucky sags into the intimacy, eyes shutting when tanned fingers card through his hair. His eyes are stinging. His jaw is clenched. Fuck, he is weak. Weak.

“Are you ready? Because I’ve got some tough love to dish out. Some downright poor news to give you.”

Bucky dips his vibranium forefinger into his ear. The other is pressed firmly to Tony’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, a little louder than he needs to. “I can’t hear you. I’ve gone deaf.”

Tony chuckles, a warm vibration that makes Bucky’s eyes slip closed.

“We can’t kill Rumlow, Bucky, you know that right? I need to hear you say that you _know_ that.”

Bucky pulls away. He hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees, letting one hand palm at his stringy, too-long hair. “I don’t know that. I’m supposed to say yes—but I don’t. Maybe I’m not reformed, Tony. Maybe I’m still just one bad day away from being who I was. But I think of someone hurting you or the kid like that and…I’d kill them. I’d do it. I wouldn’t feel bad about it, either.”

“That,” Tony says carefully. “Is something that you can absolutely admit. To me and maybe a license therapist that we have sign some waivers and come to the tower. But that’s not the way this world works.”

“It works for some people,” Bucky says. “Doing bad shit. It works for Rumlow, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” Tony asks. He wiggles his eyebrows. The man is so facially expressive, the polar opposite of Bucky who struggles to even make his mouth curl into a smile sometimes. “Or is he going to get a serious comeuppance, one that will land him in prison for many, many years?”

“You’ve got an idea,” says Bucky slowly.

“I’ve got twenty ideas, none of which involve murder. Okay, number twelve did. But I shelfed that one right away, because giving my enemies a lifetime of suffering is exactly how I sleep so well at night. Polar bear, I’m going to leave the murder-scene to you, because you have the brooding eyes and intimidating build for it—but let me teach you about my scene. The scene of a billionaire with many, many connections. I can ruin him socially, politically, financially—”

“I want to ruin his kneecaps,” Bucky mutters. “But I know you’re talking sense. Is it weird that I’m a little turned on hearing you talk about ruining a man?”

“Not at all,” Tony purrs. “I’d imagine you want me to ruin you too. Granted, in a very different way.”

“Wouldn’t mind ruining _you_ tonight, actually,” says Bucky. Tony reaches down between his legs and massages at his soft cock, and the sight alone makes Bucky’s own jolt with arousal. His mouth waters, a reflexive action that has him swallowing, even as the sweatpants between Tony’s legs begin to tent. Lowly, Bucky says: “Don’t tease me old man. I’m in a dangerous mood, tonight.”

“I don’t know where to begin taking that statement apart,” Tony sighs, leaning back against the cushions of the couch. He dips a hand beneath the waistband of his sweats and works his cock in long, lazy strokes, barely hidden by the soft fabric. It’s more tantalizing than any lingerie Bucky’s ever seen, teasing, sensual, sexy. “First of all, old men in glass retirement homes shouldn’t throw stones, Mr. Born in 1918. Secondly—” Tony pulls his hand free, frowning. “We really shouldn’t be doing this out here. The kid is in the other room.”

That just makes Bucky’s cock harder. He hunches over himself more to conceal it. Yeah, a kid in his twenties is hardly a kid, but Bucky knows enough about modern society to wonder about the heads that would turn if he and Peter walked down the street together. Peter and Tony walking down the street together? That’s—that’s. “I don’t care if you don’t,” Bucky says.

“FRIDAY, alert us if Peter looks like he’s going to leave his room.”

Bucky slides down off of the couch and maneuvers his way between Tony’s legs. As expressive as his lover is, Tony is very practiced at maintaining his calm exterior when it comes to sex. Bucky considers it a game to see how quickly he can reduce Tony to unabashed, selfish ecstasy. Judging by the way his chest rises and falls with more speed than usual, not to mention how he turns his head and cranes his neck to glance at the door Peter disappeared through as if to make sure the kid wasn’t standing there watching—this exhibition bit is affecting Tony as much as it is Bucky.

Bucky leans forward and mouths at Tony’s cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. Tony’s cock is a thing of wonder, not as long or thick as his own, but above average (especially for a man of his height). The fabric grows dark beneath Bucky’s mouth as he licks at the twitching erection, mapping it out with his lips to find where the head is and lather his tongue over it.

“Jesus, look at you,” Tony murmurs. He is the picture of relaxation, reclined back against the couch cushions, arms spread. “You’re filthy. I love it. You’re going to take me apart tonight, Buck? Bring it on, because—”

Tony’s words melt into a high gasp when Bucky opens his mouth and drags his teeth across his clothed erection. Desperate to finally feel the burning heat and heft of the cock in his mouth, Bucky coaxes Tony’s hips up so that he can jerk down his sweatpants. He would have torn them off altogether if Tony might not need to pull them up in the event Peter makes a midnight trip for a glass of water.

“No talking,” Bucky says, holding Tony’s cock still while he uses his tongue to wet the head and tease the ridge of it where the man is most sensitive. When Tony reaches up to his own mouth and pretends to zip it shut, he takes his lover’s cock deep into his mouth giving a few shallow strokes to slick it before he breathes deep, relaxes his throat, and lets it slip down the back. Tony’s hips jerk up reflexively, one hand coming off of the couch to grab at Bucky’s hair. He doesn’t say anything, but when Bucky glances up, he can see the torture on Tony’s face. The man is a chatterbox even during sex—but tonight, Bucky wants to focus.

The serum has left him with an indecent ability to hold his breath for inordinate amounts of time. It comes in handy now, when he fucks Tony’s cock with his mouth, letting the back of his throat clench around the sensitive head. It doesn’t give him much in the ways of oxygen, but when he needs a breath, he simply pulls off to tongue at the slit. Deepthroating doesn’t give him the satisfaction of tasting Tony’s cum, and he finds himself hungry for it, growling low in the back of his throat.

“Gonna cum,” Tony admits after several long minutes, pressing his lips shut tightly afterwards. Bucky could tell that he was, a hand cradling the man’s balls as they grow stiffer and tighter, drawing up closer to his body. He appreciates the warning, draws back so that when Tony cums, it’s in his mouth and not down his throat. Tony’s orgasm is silent except for the close-mouthed groan he give, the stuttering breaths as one hand nearly pulls Bucky’s hair clear from the roots and the other scrabbles at the leather sofa.

“Fuck, I love you,” Tony pants.

“Show me,” Bucky says through his teeth. “Roll over. Now.”

Tony is rolling before Bucky even finishes the sentence. With his metal hand (still gloved), Bucky pushes the glass coffee table back, back to give them room where Tony kneels, knees on the floor, chest against the seat of the couch. His back is arched beautifully, tanned skin dotted with the occasional scar. His ass is a thing of art—Bucky spits on his fingers and reaches down to find Tony’s hole. The man is still relaxed from their lovemaking that morning, but that doesn’t stop Bucky from fingerfucking him with glee, hearing him stifle his oversensitive noises into the couch cushion. His own cock is aching, the head purple by the time he draws it out from his pants.

“Relax,” Bucky mutters, planting a hand between Tony’s shoulders. He sees one of the man’s fists turn into a gentle thumbs up and tries not to snort—it might take them out of the mood. Reaching down, he uses the head of his cock to search and then press into Tony in one long, slow movement. He grits his teeth, hesitating when he’s balls deep, thighs pressed against the backs of Tony’s. It never gets old: the heat, the slick tightness, the way every squirm of Tony’s tightens the muscles in his ass and squeezes Bucky’s cock.

Bucky presses his hand down harder, encouraging Tony to keep still. The muscles clench again—Tony fucking loves when Bucky is in charge and showing his enhanced strength. So Bucky reaches out and runs his palms, one flesh and one gloved, along Tony’s arms until he reaches the strong wrists. He pulls them back, twists them until they are crossed at the small of the man’s back. Tony moans into the couch cushion.

He can’t hold out anymore. Bucky pulls himself free until just the head is buried in his lover and then sinks back in, groaning at the relief the friction provides him. He’s not going to last long, not as long as Tony had by far, not when he’s greeted with the sight of the trim curve of Tony’s waist, exaggerated by the position. Not when Tony’s ass squeezes his clock like the most sinful glove.

Suddenly, a voice is speaking quietly overhead. FRIDAY. “Peter has left his bed.”

Tony’s back arches with the force of his gasp, head turning to show wild, panicked brown eyes—but Bucky can’t stop, not when he’s so close, not when all he needs are a few more thrusts. Whatever is written on his face must express that because Tony whines high in his throat, chest dropping back onto the couch heavily. He clenches his muscles and Bucky hisses, the pressure on his cock borderline painful. Only another second or two has passed, but he imagines that he can hear Peter’s footsteps, and that is what drives him over the edge. Clenching his teeth together to keep from crying out, Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut as he pumps load after load into Tony’s tight ass.

“Peter appears to be exiting his room—” FRIDAY warns.

Bucky’s cock is still twitching when he slips it free of Tony and shoves it back into his jeans. He takes care of Tony first, helping to pull up the man’s sweat pants and then zip and button his own. They can hear the click of the doorknob turning just as they are standing.

Peter blinks at the light in the main room, squinting a little. Tony shifts, breathing heavy. Bucky wonders if cum is running down his legs, and his cock twitches. When Peter sees them both there, he blushes prettily, his curls mussed as if he’s tried to sleep.

“Sorry,” Peter croaks. “I was just going to get a glass so I could drink some water from the tap.”

“I have sparkling,” Tony says. He claps Bucky on the shoulder, hard. “Bucky will be more than glad to show it to you—”

Peter’s face flushes even more and then—oh no—he glances downward, no chance he will miss the way that Bucky is still half-hard, and under the kid’s soft brown eyes Bucky feels himself becoming interested again, God, this is a nightmare. The kid’s eyes just as quickly flick over to Tony’s groin but then they stop, brows furrowing and then climbing upwards.

Bucky glances quickly for himself, and his own eyes grow twice their size. The groin of Tony’s sweatpants is still wet and dark with Bucky’s saliva from where he fellated the man through the fabric. It’s not soaked by any means, but questionable at best.

“There’s an explanation for that,” Tony says, sounding very much like he’s going to give the most reasonable excuse any of them have ever heard. Bucky himself is preparing to be surprised, but then—

“He’s incontinent,” Bucky blurts.

“ _No_ —” Tony says, clapping him on the back. “Points for trying, honey, but I am _not_ —"

“I, it’s okay, it’s not my business—I just, you know what? There’s a faucet in the bathroom, sorry, I’ll just—”

Peter disappears into his room. The last glimpse they get is of Peter’s red face, one wide brown eyes staring through the crack in the door before it shuts quietly.

Tony reaches out and gently slaps Bucky upside the head. “Incontinent?” he hisses. “How old do you think I fucking am, Buck?”

“It was the first thing that came to mind, okay?”

“What _is_ it with you and this kid?” Tony asks. He’s the only man who can sound so quizzical and collected with cum dripping down his legs. “He gets you so flustered, like I’ve never seen you. Give me the scoop—I don’t think he’ll be showing his face out here again tonight. Go on, start from the beginning, and tell me everything. We’re in this together now.”

So, after Tony returns from the restroom, Bucky does. Because he believes Tony, he trusts Tony when the man says that they’re in it together, and he knows that there’s (probably) nothing he could say that would make the man love him any less. Tony’s face is expressive, a Shakespearean drama playing out all his features, a cocktail of tragedy and affection and exasperation and concern all at once. By the time it ends, both of their erections are gone, and the man looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes.

“I keep thinking about Steve,” Bucky says at length. His head rests in Tony’s lap, staring up at the goatee he’s become so fond of. “I think about him every day, which still isn’t as often as I should. ‘ve been wondering if he’d be proud of the kind of man I am now. It makes me feel like shit.”

“He’d be proud,” Tony says, carding thick fingers through Bucky’s hair. He lets his calloused thumb drift over the plain of Bucky’s forehead to rub at the furrow between his eyes, snorting when Bucky raises and lowers his eyebrows. “It’s not easy, starting from scratch the way you have.”

“Steve did it.”

“He made some amazing mistakes, too, if you remember the tales correctly.”

Bucky turns onto his side and buries his face in the soft fabric of Tony’s shirt. “I just feel like this is what he would want me to do. All day I struggle to decide what the right choice is, and half the time I have no idea what I’m doing. But when I saw him, I knew I had to help, and I knew in my heart it was right. Does that make sense?”

Tony hums. “You’d be surprised.”


	4. Chapter 4

Peter presses his back flat against the door of his guest room. His heart races, breath coming fast until he dissolves into a coughing fit that leaves him trembling. That does little to wane the erection straining at his jeans that he’d hastily pulled on in his quest for water. He reaches down to palm at himself, eyes half-open but mind distant and in the other room with the two older men.

As if today wasn’t surreal enough (somehow getting delivered medicine by Tony Stark’s boyfriend, brought back to Stark Tower to meet the billionaire, fed dinner and antibiotics by him), he was 99% sure that he’d walked in on Mr. Stark and his boyfriend having sex. Or at least participating in some sort of foreplay. The thought alone makes him gulp, his cock twitching. They were two of the most attractive men Peter had ever seen, and the combination they made was devastatingly arousing.

Had Bucky (Peter flushed just thinking the men’s names) been giving Tony a blowjob? The crotch of the older man’s sweatpants had been darkened like a warm wet tongue had lapped and sucked at it. Combined with the fact that Bucky had certainly been more than half-hard had Peter’s brain short.

He stumbles into the bathroom, blinking at the bright lights, and splashes cold water on his face—but it doesn’t help. His cock aches thinking about what he might have interrupted, what had been taking place right outside Peter’s door. Why the two men might have been fooling around out in the open with Peter in just the other room, the young man couldn’t say. It was almost as if they had _wanted_ to be caught.

Whining softly, Peter reaches down and unfastens his jeans. When he takes his cock in his hand, it throbs. There’s no chance he’ll last long, not when he sees the look on Bucky’s face every time he blinks his eyes, not when he wishes that he’d been the one on his knees sucking at Tony Stark’s hard cock through his sweatpants. His balls draw up tightly and he fists himself harder, one hand coming up to clasp over his mouth while he keens, cumming into the toilet and over his fingers.

The infection in his lungs makes him feel winded. The cum sticking to his fingers makes him feel guilty. What a pervert he is, jerking off in Mr. Stark’s bathroom when he and Bucky have been so kind to Peter, nothing but proper. Tears burn at his eyes while he flushes the toilet and washes his hands, scrubbing until they’re raw. Then he leans down and laps at water from the faucet. It tastes so _clean_.

Crawling into the huge bed in the guest room, he wiggles out of his jeans and lets them drop over the edge of the bed, rubbing his bare legs against the softest sheets he’s ever known. He takes one of the pillows and cradles it to his chest. All he can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat thudding in his aching head. He wishes for a broad, warm chest that he could lay against, a heartbeat to listen to that isn’t his own.

-

Peter wakes with a head full of cotton, chest aching. The next dose of his antibiotics sits on the nightstand where he’d left it the night before. He takes it right away, reclining back into the soft bedspread to give himself some time to come awake. Despite not feeling any better, he does feel more rested. There were no sirens to wake him, no sound of people coming and going through the apartment hallway at all hours of the night. It had been far more comfortable than sleeping on the floor among all of his musty blankets, that’s for sure. All in all, it’s the best night of sleep he’s had.

It will make returning to his tiny, cold apartment all the more painful.

But he doesn’t need to think on that, now. He stands carefully so as to avoid dizziness, dressing himself in yesterday’s clothes (at least they were clean when he put them on). His stomach aches fiercely, more attuned to its own hollowness after last night’s bounty of food. He drinks some more from the faucet to dampen the hunger. Just in case Mr. Stark and Bucky don’t have any breakfast to offer him.

As soon as he opens his bedroom door, he sees that he needn’t have worried. The sound of modern rock music can be heard, but the smell—! Peter can smell syrup and pancake batter and bacon, the sound of it sizzling a nice undercurrent to the sound of Soundgarden.

Even better than the food is the sight that greets him when he rounds the corner and the kitchen comes into view. Tony sits on one of the high stools at the kitchen island instead of the dining table they’d eaten at the night before. He’s dressed impeccably in a gray suit with a navy tie and the same tinted glasses he’d been wearing the night before. Three different newspapers sit splayed in front of him while he sips from a steaming mug of coffee. Bucky is cooking, his long hair tied back to keep it from his face. He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and a long sleeve Henley shirt while he stands at the stove, coaxing bacon into crisping.

Tony glances over, and the smile he gives fills Peter’s guts with butterflies. God, the man is so handsome. He absolutely deserves People’s magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive award (which he’s received for the third consecutive year in a row). Tony Stark is the reason that Peter began to pursue a degree in biotechnology. There have been posters of the man on his wall since he was a little boy—though now that he’s grown, those posters are just carefully folded and preserved with his other sentimental belongings. No need for them when Peter can just turn on the television or pull out his phone and google the man.

“Peter,” Tony greets warmly. Bucky jerks at the stove, glancing over his shoulder to pierce Peter where he stands with pale eyes. The full lips twitch upward though, and Peter breathes a sigh of relief, gingerly stepping from the shadows towards the warmth and light of the kitchen. Tony pulls out the stool beside him. “Take a seat, kid. How are you feeling?”

“Medicine hasn’t had much of a chance to work yet, but I slept great. Thank you so much, Mr. Stark. Your guest room is awesome.”

“It’s no problem, Pete. Call me Tony, okay?”

Peter flushes, nodding.

Bucky turns away from the stove and back towards the island where some fresh fruit rests: berries and mangoes. Picking up a wicked little blade, he begins to slice the fruit, and that’s when Peter notices for the first time: one of Bucky’s arms isn’t real.

It’s an incredible piece of biotech, made up of a massive number of metallic plates that shift and move as easily as a flesh hand might. The sound it makes is soft and almost unheard over the music that continues to play. Peter can’t take his eyes off of it—while he’s specializing in environmental uses for biotechnology, he’s always had a soft spot for healthcare aspects, including the sophisticated prosthetics that have been produced lately.

Tony’s foot nudges him under the countertop. When Peter glances over, the man’s eyebrows are raised, his gaze pointed. Even though he’s not done anything to be embarrassed about, Peter feels himself flushing. He turns his eyes down toward the marble countertop and keeps them there until a plate slides into his vision.

Peter glances up to see Bucky’s wary expression—he doesn’t know which of them smiles in relief first (or whether the upwards twitch of Bucky’s lips can be categorized as a smile), just that both of their shoulders relax.

“You should eat that,” Tony says, gesturing vaguely to the fruit on Peter’s plate. “The vitamin C will be good for you. Bucky be a dream and put more—”

“You’re not getting out of eating your fruit,” Bucky says lowly. He slides a plate to Tony. “Coffee is not a food group. We’ve talked about this.”

Peter listens to them bicker with wide eyes flickering back and forth. When he pops a piece of mango in his mouth, his eyes flutter shut. It bursts on his tongue, so sweet that his jaw aches and he licks his fingers chasing the taste before remembering there’s more—he doesn’t just have to take a few bites and then save it for later when he’s hungrier—and when his eyes open again, the men have stopped arguing and are watching him.

He points down at the fruit, his mouth full of his next bite. “This ‘s real good.”

“We can tell,” Tony says. He licks his lips before continuing and Peter’s eyes track the motion. He shifts on the stool feeling his cock stir. Not now. “Classes today?”

“No,” Peter admits. “I’m pretty sure I’m still infectious. I’ve been emailing with my professors to keep up with the work whenever my fever is down.”

“You’re welcome to stay at the Tower today,” says Tony. “Bucky will be here alone otherwise—and not that he isn’t an island, but I’m sure he’d have a better time with company around.”

Peter’s heart jumps. Spending the day at the Tower with Bucky? The thought alone is enough to make his palms sweat and hands shake. Before Bucky showed up at his apartment door, Peter had gone days without having a conversation face-to-face with anyone. Any company would have excited Peter, but Bucky? That created an entirely different sort of excitement within him.

Peter could see how some mind find his presence stoic, but there wasn’t any coldness in his eyes (even if they were the color of ice), and every time Peter glanced at him, Bucky’s mouth would curve ever-so-slightly. Maybe he was just a reserved sort of guy. Peter was eager to find out. He glances shyly towards the man in question, and the uncertainty must read through on Peter’s face because Bucky says, “I’d like that a lot.”

His heart soars. “I just need to talk to one of my professors—”

Tony stands, buttoning the top button of his suit jacket with a single, nimble hand. He points a thumb at Bucky who is piling bacon onto a plate. Way too much bacon for just the two of them, considering Mr. Stark looks like he’s making his exit. “Bucky can drop you off at your apartment so you can grab your laptop and books. Right Northern Light?”

Bucky nods solemnly.

“Oh,” Peter says. His hands are sticky with fruit juice but fall to his lap to wring. “Actually, I don’t have a laptop. I’ve just been walking to the Bobst Library—they have computers open to the public, and the wifi isn’t half bad. Sometimes I just have to wait until one opens up.”

“You’ve been walking to the library with pneumonia,” Tony repeats blankly.

Peter blanches. “Oh God. Do you think I got anybody sick? I—I tried to use hand sanitizer as often as I could, and I made sure to cough into my elbow like all those elementary school health lessons taught us, you know, like Dracula wearing a cape—”

“Kid,” says Tony, putting a hand on his shoulder. “The public is the last thing I’m worried about. We have computers here. They aren’t free to the public, but they’re free to you. Make good use of them, okay? Bucky will show you. I have to go, I’ve already missed the first ten minutes of my meeting, and those are usually the only minutes colorful enough to keep my attention.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Bucky asks, both palms (one flesh, one metal, gosh that’s so cool) flat on the countertop. Tony dashes around it to place a swift kiss on Bucky’s lips, chaste though heated, one hand coming up to stroke back the hairs that have come lose from Bucky’s bun.

“I love you,” Tony says.

“I love you too,” Bucky replies. “But that’s not what I meant. Take a fucking banana, Tony. You’re worse than a toddler.”

Groaning, Tony grabs a banana from the fruit on the countertop. As he walks by again, Peter hears his mutter under his breath something about _torture_. Then the door is shutting behind the billionaire, and Peter is left entirely alone with the man’s boyfriend in their ridiculously fancy penthouse.

Bucky clears his throat. “Do you want some bacon?”

Peter nods, mutely, holding out his empty plate.

-

“Sorry you’re stuck here with me, kid,” Bucky says while they do the dishes. He’s washing, Peter is rinsing. On Bucky’s left side the way he is, he gets an eyeful of that incredible bionic arm. It is so delicate when it hands Peter the crystal glasses that had held his orange juice, it’s truly a work of art. “I’m not nearly as much fun as Tony.”

“I’m not sure how much fun I should be having anyway,” Peter admits. “I have pneumonia. Can I say something? I don’t—I don’t want to be rude or insensitive or anything—”

“I’m not the kinda guy who gets easily offended.”

“Your arm—” Despite Bucky’s reassurance, he tenses all over. His shoulders rise towards his ears, and the metal fist flexes and then grip into a fist as if it could disappear into itself and cease to exist. “—it is so _cool_. God, the biomechanics of it. Who designed it? My applied physics class did a semester at Johns Hopkins and we got to see the Modular Prosthetic Limb in person, but this is just, just light years ahead of that!”

By the time Peter runs out of breath (sooner than he would have liked, given the coughing fit he is subjected to), Bucky stares at him with some indeterminable expression. Then his mouth twitches, and then the smile blooms, prettier than any flower Peter’s ever seen. Bucky exudes darkness and broodiness, but for a moment Peter sees something in him that is boyish and so charming, it makes butterflies bat their wings against the inside of his stomach.

Bucky holds up the arm and works the fingers, flexing and relaxing them. “I don’t know about whatever it is you just said—but Tony made this.”

And of course! Peter had hoped that’s what Bucky would say that. If possible, Peter feels his crush on the billionaire grow exponentially.

“Why haven’t I read about it?” Peter asks. Against his will, one hand drifts up and hovers over the bionic arm. His fingers tingle like they’re full of static electricity, like any moment the energy will jump from his flesh to the metal, and he wonders—is it warm? Is it cool? Does it hum? “I look for every free article online about Mr. Stark and his work, but I’ve never read about him stepping into the world of medical prosthetics—”

“Every article, huh?” Bucky teases. The metal fingers twitch, coming so close to Peter’s own, and Peter feels all the breath slip from his lungs (what little breath is left there), even as his face turns red. “Don’t tell that to Tony or you’ll inflate his ego even more than it already is.”

“He totally deserves it though,” Peter mutters, pressing his lips together to avoid smiling outright. “I mean, look at this—your arm is incredible. Can you feel? I mean, of course you can, otherwise you’d be breaking every glass we washed.”

“I can feel,” Bucky confirms. His eyes are glittering with a warmth Peter hasn’t yet seen. “And he does deserve it. Tony is—something else. You can touch it, if you want.”

The red flush on Peter’s face deepens. His fingers curl up in anxiety before slowing blooming again. It feels so intimate to touch another man’s hand like this, all the more so knowing that Bucky can feel it. As sensual as it feels (and what is Peter doing, doing something so sensual with a man who is dating Peter’s own hero?), he can’t help but sate his curiosity by exploring the most incredible piece of machinery he’s ever seen.

With the most delicate care, he lets his trembling fingers drift that last half inch to touch Bucky’s metal palm. The metal is smooth and notably cooler than flesh would have been. It doesn’t hum the way Peter might have imagined it to, but when Bucky relaxes his fingers to open his palm even more and the plates shift so smoothly and seamlessly, there is a gentle noise that comes with the movement. Peter reaches out with his other hand until he’s clasping Bucky’s in both of his own, coaxing it to turn over palm-down so that he ran run his fingers across the knuckles, such a complex piece of technology. It flinches a little under his touch, and Peter glances up shyly to make sure he isn’t hurting Bucky, but the man’s eyes are closed, his full mouth gently parted, taking in quick but silent breaths.

Peter’s own breath stutters as he quickly averts his eyes back to the hand, feeling flustered at having witnessed the man in such a vulnerable moment. Then his eyes drop more, more, and he can’t help but remember last night when he walked in on whatever was going on between the two older men. His heart skips a beat when he sees that yes…that bulge in Bucky’s pants is back. Bucky is hard.

Swallowing, he focuses on where his fingers are traces over the peaks and valleys of the man’s knuckles. The wrist is a thing of magic, too, so very thick (though it matches with the rest of the arm and with Bucky’s authentic physique too). Bucky towers over Peter, outweighs him by a hundred pounds probably, and the strength of him is obvious. When he presses firmly into the metal with his thumb, Bucky groans shortly in his throat.

Peter jerks away, red faced. His own cock is not quite full but noticeably harder than it should be from just glorified holding hands with a taken man.

“It’s, it’s real cool Mr.—” Peter cuts himself off, suddenly aware that he doesn’t know Bucky’s last name.

“Just call me Bucky,” the man says, blinking the glazed look out of his eyes.

-

Bucky doesn’t give himself enough credit, because Peter has more fun hanging around the Tower with him than he’s had in months—maybe even years. After showing Peter to the computer so he can email with his teachers, they lounge on the couch making use of Tony’s expansive Blu-ray collection. It’s obvious that Bucky has a lot of experience with sick people: he orders soup for lunch and makes sure to keep Peter relaxed and warm and reminds him to take his medicine when the time comes. It’s been so long since anyone has taken care of Peter that it lulls him into a soft, vulnerable state.

“How did you and Mr. Stark meet?” He asks Bucky.

“Through a mutual friend,” Bucky says, slowly. “We—didn’t really get along. Thought he hated me for the longest time, but then he was the one to extend an olive branch, and, well, you know what he’s like. It’s so easy to fall in love with him. He’s so goddamn smart, with a heart as big as his brain.”

“He’s great,” Peter sighs dreamily.

“He really is.”

“You’re great too,” Peter says, brain to mouth filter crumbled. “I—I mean, you’re really good together, you know? You’re both so. Yeah. Great.”

“Thanks,” says Bucky, half his mouth crooking up into a knowing sort of smirk. “We like you too. You’re a good kid.”

Peter flushes, pleased. He hopes Bucky will blame it on the potential fever.

“Do you like music?” Bucky asks.

Peter blinks at the question, leaning his head up from where he had relaxed it against the armrest of the couch. “Yeah, sure.”

So that’s how they end up laying on the floor of the penthouse while music plays from overhead. The acoustics are unlike anything Peter’s ever heard before: crystal clear and from all around. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift in and out of sleep sometimes before a movement or spoken word from Bucky rouses him.

“I’ve been trying to put together a playlist. I want to burn a CD for Tony of songs from his collection that make me think of him. Before—well, I never really knew a lot of music until he introduced me to it,” Bucky says, holding his phone above his face to poke at it with one finger. “But this isn’t really the kind of gesture I’ve ever had to make before. I’m kind of worried I’ll fuck it up.”

“It sounds so, so sweet,” Peter says. It’s so sweet that it hurts a little—Peter has never had anyone want to make gestures like that for him. For the last few years, Peter has barely had anyone to interact with at all. “I’m sure I speak for Mr. Stark when I say that I doubt you could go wrong, honestly. It will be the thought that counts.”

“Yeah, but I want the thoughts to be good, too,” snarks Bucky. “Not just sweet.”

“I know what you mean.”

For a while they listen in silence. Peter dozes again and has a little half-dream of May and Ben. Peter was just a little boy when his parents died, and he went to live with them, so a lot of the memories he has are fuzzy from childhood. But he always remembers how much they loved each other, how beautifully romantic their relationship was. May used to play records and her and Ben would dance in the apartment’s kitchen together, swaying softly.

“A record player would make this even better,” Peter murmurs, quiet so as to not break the intimacy of the moment.

“Like a CD player?” Bucky asks, propping himself up on his metal elbow. It emphasizes the obscene width of his chest compared to the narrow hips. Peter’s mouth goes dry and swallowing doesn’t help. “Or a turntable?’

“A turntable I guess. For records—not CD’s.”

Bucky’s eyes glitter.

And that’s how they end up in Mr. Stark’s private study. There is a record player there that would have put the old one in May’s apartment to shame. This one looks to be antique, kept in excellent condition, the wood glossy and unscratched. An entire bookshelf (one of the many) is dedicated to holding records, records on records, and finger trails his fingers over them reverently. If only May or Ben could see this.

He chooses one at random. Pink Floyd’s THE WALL. It isn’t glossy and new like the others. This one’s corners are worn away, and in the bottom corner is scratched TONY S. ’79 in a child’s neat script. Peter can’t imagine a nine-year-old Tony Stark listening to it, much less enough to wear away the record sleeve.

“I’m not really sure how to make this work,” Bucky admits, fingers drumming anxiously against the side of the record player. “I’m used to the ones that crank.”

Peter pulls another sleeve and smiles. “That’s okay, I know how.”

He puts the record on the platter and lowers the arm until the needle rests against it. The switch along the side starts the platter spinning, and soon there is music filling the room. The acoustics here are great, the books soaking up the sound. Peter plays around with the needle location until he finds a certain song, lips quirking into a smile at the opening notes.

“Who’s this?” Bucky asks.

“Robert Plant,” Peter says. “The band is called Led Zeppelin.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Bucky says, eyes wide and bright. “Not this song though. This song feels different.”

“It’s called Fool in the Rain. It’s one of my favorite songs. My aunt used to do this dance—” Peter shakes his body, curls flying back and forth. When he stops, breathing heavy, Bucky is staring at him with his nose scrunched up.

“Looked like you were having a fit or something,” Bucky says.

“Good,” Peter laughs, a little breathless. “That’s how she always looked too.”

When the song ends, Peter goes hunting around again with the needle. The next song doesn’t feel as upbeat, the slightly ethereal sound of a synthesizer filling the room. Even though he chose the song himself, all at once he is melancholic, his heart heavy with sorrow that’s been years in accumulating. Even though All of My Love wasn’t a romantic song, it was one of Ben and May’s favorites to slow dance too.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks quietly from Peter’s side. “You look sad.”

“Just the song,” Peter says, eyes prickling. “My aunt and uncle used to dance to it a lot. It’s been years, but I still miss them.”

Bucky’s metal hand comes up. Peter sees it hover out of the corner of his eye, and then it comes down to rest so gently on Peter’s shoulder, and it all seems too much. There’d been no one there to hold him after May’s death, and he hadn’t had time to grieve with the stress of school and working to try to afford it. The burning in his eyes overflows and scorches down his cheeks. He turns and buries his face in Bucky’s broad chest. Immediately the strong, warm arms come down around him, bracketing him in a safety he hasn’t felt in years. One large hand comes up to cradle Peter’s head, pressing him closer, and he feels Bucky’s head lean down to rest against the crown of his own.

“I’m sorry,” Peter cries.

“Don’t be,” Bucky says roughly. “Nothin’ to be sorry for.”

They stand there hugging for one long minute, both of them loathe to let go. Eventually Bucky’s firm hold turns into a soft sway, and then they are dancing. It’s very middle-school, just a gentle shuffle from side to side, but hadn’t that been all May and Ben ever did together? And maybe it’s wrong to even compare May and Ben to Peter and Bucky, because of the age different, because of the fact that Bucky _has a boyfriend._

Peter glances up, and there must be hero-worship on his face but he can’t help it. This dark man coaxed him from his sick bed, brought him to this refuge. Bucky is his hero, now, so worthy of Peter’s gratefulness and idolization and—they aren’t swaying from side to side anymore, more like swaying closer and closer together, and Bucky’s hand is still buried in Peter’s curls. It’s all very intimate, and even when the song changes, they don’t move. When Peter sees those pale eyes drop to his mouth, his breath catches in his throat.

“I want to kiss you,” Bucky says, voice low and rough. “But it doesn’t feel right to kiss you when you’ve been crying.”

“That seems like the perfect time to kiss me,” Peter breathes.

That’s all Bucky needs, swooping down to press their eager mouths together. One hand presses firmly against Peter’s lower back, dragging them flush together, and Peter is looking so far up to kiss Bucky that he feels nearly bent in half, back arched obscenely. Their mouths part mutually, and Bucky tastes like the energy drink he’d guzzled after lunch. Peter’s hands come up to grip desperately at the older man’s shirt, fisting the fabric, loathe to let him part even an inch.

“This is better than the cinema.”

Bucky and Peter pull apart like they’ve been burnt, turning to see Tony where he leans against the open door frame of the study.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a minute! sorry

At the sound of Tony Stark’s rumbling voice, Peter’s stomach drops to somewhere around his socked-toes. All the terrible things that could have happened (not that he’d been imagining any of them, not when he saw Bucky’s pale eyes drop to his lips. All thoughts of morals had been beaten away by the butterfly wings that battered inside his stomach), all those terrible things that could befall any infidelious person and this is the worst of them. Getting caught. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter gasps, stumbling back to put distance between himself and Bucky. Nothing to see here, nothing funny, just two acquaintances slow dancing with red, raw mouths.  _ Yeah _ —Peter can’t imagine anyone being able to pull the wool over Tony Stark’s eyes, much less himself. Even if he had an excuse that wasn’t thin as he is, there’s no way his conscience could let him hide behind it. Aunt May hadn’t raised him to be that kind of man. Shoulders bowing, Peter says, “Please don’t be angry at Bucky. I came on to  _ him _ , he—” 

“Is that true, Bucky?” Tony asks. “Did you make this sweet, sick boy do all the work?”

“Hell no,” Bucky mutters. “My ma raised me better than that. He didn’t have to lift a finger.” 

Had the pneumonia scrambled Peter’s brain? Maybe the medicine Dr. Banner gave him had strange (wonderful) hallucinogenic properties that hadn’t manifested until now. His eyes flicker back and forth between the easy banter of the couple, throat growing tighter and tighter.

“In that case, don’t mind me. Fly on the wall,” Tony says, leaning back into the doorway. In his three piece suit, he is the picture of a respectable businessman. The way his eyes burn as he traces up and down them is anything but respectful. His tongue traces his lower lip and Peter replays the sight in his head in ultra high-definition. “Pretend I’m not here. Picture me in my underwear, if you’d prefer—you know, that idiom doesn’t work when I’m not wearing underwear, but these goddamn worsted wool suits, you can see every line—” 

“What, you’re, you—I’m sorry Mr. Stark, but are you joking?” Peter wonders. A worse thought comes with no justification save for a long history of experiencing cruelty at other people’s hands: what if they’re trying to trick him? What into, Peter can’t be certain. What he  _ is  _ certain of is that no man like Tony Stark (no man in general) could possibly be okay with someone else kissing their lover. 

Tony’s face goes soft, a tender twisting of his mouth. Peter’s eyes drop. No, these aren’t the kinds of men who would trick or hurt him. Surely if he looks Tony in the eye, the man will see Peter’s cowardice, his betrayal of their characters. 

“Kid—I’m sorry. It  _ was  _ just a joke. In a way.” Tony lifts the needle on the record player and the music cuts away, leaving a heavy silence behind that no one is sure how to fill. After a stretch, Tony goes on: “Pizza for dinner? Are you hungry?”

Peter is always hungry. “Yes, but—Mr. Stark, maybe I should go.”

“You can’t even stay for dinner?”

“I—alright. No—I mean. I don’t know.”

Tony turns to Bucky. The tone he uses to speak to the other man is night and day from the tone he uses with Peter, his voice low and familiar. “Did you not explain anything to him? What have you been up to all day, buttercup?”

Bucky’s mouth curls up at the corner, a wry, guilty look that makes him look ten years younger. “Dancin’?”

-

Peter clears his plate twice, burning the roof of his mouth (though he hardly cares, the pizza is so good. From someplace in upper Manhattan, real gourmet stuff topped with portobello mushrooms and red peppers and black olives). Bucky is almost as ravenous, folding his pizza like a true New-Yorker. When he takes his metal fingers into his mouth to suck the grease off, Peter has to look away, stomach feeling hot in a way that has nothing to do with the peppers on the pizza. That mouth, those fingers,  _ god _ . 

All throughout dinner, Tony’s dark eyes flicker back and forth like they are prime entertainment, looking a little heated under the collar himself when Bucky cleans his hands. He tells them a story about running into a professional Tony Stark impersonator in the pizza shop, until Peter nearly forgets that there’s a reason Mr. Stark should hate him. By the time nothing remains but empty, grease-sodden pizza boxes, Peter feels sleepy and full, lulled in the best way. 

“Two things, kid,” Tony says, using a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Small things. We’d like you to live here, and also Bucky would like to make out—“

“Nice opening,” Bucky huffs, eyebrows low and threatening. “Any other bombshells to drop on him? You his bio dad? Tell him that I killed JKF?”

“FRIDAY, scrub the last five minutes,” Tony snaps. 

Peter struggles to follow along. Tony began to lose him somewhere around  _ live here _ and left him in the dust at  _ Bucky would like to make out.  _ Blinking hard, nothing changes, no world slipping sideways, no veil lifting to reveal everything as a hallucination. But surely this can’t be real life. Real life wouldn’t be nearly so strange. 

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Peter admits, fingers tapping his thighs in an anxious rhythm. “Did you say something about living here, Mr. Stark?” 

“Let’s start with Bucky first, actually,” Tony says, eyes glittering like he’s getting strange pleasure from seeing Peter so flustered. 

“Tony—” 

“No, no, you had your chance to talk to him during the 9-5. You’re officially off the clock. We’re all about not violating Fair Labor Standards Act.” Bucky’s face gives away nothing. His metal hand makes a sound as he clenches it into a tight fist and then tucks it into his lap, shrugging in a way that says less _ fine, whatever _ and more  _ I, very begrudgingly and under extreme duress, relent _ . When Tony’s gaze turns back on Peter, he can’t help but stare down at his lap and the fraying knees of his pants. Aunt May always said the eyes are the window to the soul. “Kid, there’s no reason to apologize to me for kissing Bucky. We’re open. Do you understand what I mean?” 

Peter clears his throat, mouth dry. “You mean you’re in an open relationship?” 

“We don’t usually label it, but that’s acceptable terminology. We aren’t people who stifle our desires, how’s that? Sometimes Bucky’s with someone else, sometimes I’m with someone else, sometimes we’re both with someone else, but we’re always with each other. Bucky has my explicit approval to make moves on young, pneumonia-ridden college students, so long as they are willing.”

Imagining Tony and Bucky together is enough to make him want to squirm in his seat. Imagining them sharing someone between them makes him long to pant like a dog, anything to help abate the volcanic heat bubbling up inside him.  _ One thing at a time, Pete _ , he thinks to himself. He’s good at giving himself pep talks. After all, for a long time there was no one else around to encourage him. “That makes sense, Mr. Stark. But what does that  _ mean _ ? Mr.—Bucky wants to, to...you know?”

“ _ That _ is a question you can direct to the defendant. Mr. Bucky?”

Peter colors, looking at the long-haired man from beneath his dark eyelashes. 

“I want to kiss you any time you’re looking sad,” Bucky says, eyes on the hardwood of the table. “I want to make sure you don’t have anymore reasons to cry when you’re around me or not. I want to protect you. I want to kill your enemies—” 

“He’s a poet, isn’t he, regular Shakespeare—FRIDAY, let’s just scrub this whole conversation okay—” 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, “But it’s  _ Monday _ , Mr. Stark.” 

Tony smiles. It hints at a lot, not half of which Peter can decipher. He adjusts the blue-tinted glasses on his face. “Right. You’re right, Peter. Did Bucky answer your question?” 

Replaying it in his mind, Peter can feel himself flushing. His mouth tingles where an hour before, Bucky’s own had been pressed against it. If Bucky wants to kiss him every time he’s looking sad, then Peter won’t ever smile again. Not if he can help it. “Sort of. I guess I just don’t get  _ why _ . You two have each other, and you’re both. Wow. You’re both really  _ wow _ . I think if I—” Peter barely manages to stop before he says something hopelessly romantic and tragic, something like how he thinks if he had either of them, he’d never be sad again. “I just don’t understand why you’d be interested in anyone else.” 

“I don’t believe in soulmates,” Tony says. He walks to the bar in the corner and pours himself an amber-colored drink. “I believe in chemistry. That’s a renewable resource in my book, Pete, one that can be experienced between a multitude of people all at once. A gas stove has several burners, and just because you turn the gas up on one doesn’t mean you can’t ignite the others, does it?” 

“Not if it’s a good stove.” 

“Not if it’s a good stove,” Tony repeats, voice warm like the alcohol he sips at. He tips the glass towards Bucky. “Snowflake here believes that a person can have many soulmates. It’s all about the ones we choose to cultivate. Sometimes it’s that deep. And not to watch you flush, kid, but sometimes it’s just about the sex.” 

Peter works to keep his face neutral even if he can feel the heat of a blush crawling across his skin. Mr. Stark must think him a blushing virgin (and in some aspects, Peter is). Hopefully, he can’t tell that Peter’s flush is more arousal than embarrassment. 

“So which am I?” He asks, glancing nervously to Bucky. “Am I a cultivating thing or am I a sex thing?”

“You’re not a thing at all,” Bucky says. The murderous expression on his face doesn’t agree with his words. “You’re a human being. But it’s more than just sex. Sex doesn’t need to be included at all. See—I  _ told  _ Tony this morning that we were going to move too fast. We shouldn’t even be mentioning sex until after the third date—“

“Incredible. Do you hear that, kid? He didn’t take me on a date until after the sixth or seventh tryst in the lab. You’re something special.” Tony’s waggling eyebrows belie any jealousy or bitterness Peter might have imagined. 

Still. Peter can’t help but feel... _ special.  _ Not in a million years would he have imagined someone as handsome as Bucky Barnes being interested in him, not romantically, not sexually, not any way at all. He feels more than a little like he’s stepped into the Twilight Zone. Surely any moment Rod Sterling will appear leaning against the bar talking to some invisible camera.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Peter says, wringing his hands in his lap. He smiles at Bucky with shaking lips, watching the furrowed brow smooth. “I don’t expect anything at all. This is like, not expected. _ At all _ . Way out of left field. I still don’t understand…”

“Which part?” Tony asks. He puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, thumb soothing the skin just above the collar of the man’s shirt, and Peter feels it all over. 

“The  _ me  _ part,” Peter admits. “You could have anybody. Why me? Not to sound like, like I’m fishing for compliments or anything but I’m not the sort of guy people are attracted to.” But. Bad thoughts come rolling in like thunderheads, always clinging to the edges of his mind eager to blot out any sun that might appear, because there’s one thing Peter knows he’s good at. One thing people are attracted to. 

Mr. Rumlow tells him so. 

Peter shivers despite the warmth of the room, pizza sitting like a heavy stone in his gut. God, why had he told Bucky and Mr. Stark about the arrangement between himself and the super of his apartment complex? Their reactions were fuzzy in his mind, the effects of the medicine he’d taken turning everything mottled and loose at the edges, but Peter knows how it sounds. He knows what  _ he  _ would think, if it had been another student sucking Mr. Rumlow’s dick anytime he knocks just to keep from having to pay rent. 

It’s not as bad as it sounds, though. Mr. Rumlow (“Call me Brock, I think you’ve more than earned it, Pete”) is attractive enough. He’s not really rough, not large enough to leave Peter’s throat sore the way a bigger cock might (Peter has read on the internet that that’s Possible). He likes to say foul things while Peter’s on his knees, things he knows that are just said during sex, like how Peter is so dirty, such a slut for his cock. But more often than not, Peter just drowns that out. 

Why he feels so pathetic thinking about it, he isn’t sure. 

“Kid.”

Peter looks up and sees the blurry form of Tony, the taller form of Bucky crouched down beside his seat. Eyes stinging, he reaches up to palm at them. His hands come away damp, vision clear, but now he can see the worry on Tony’s face, the intense stare Bucky has fixed him with, and that makes it so much worse. People caring rubs a tender part of him raw and it  _ hurts _ . 

“I’m not doing such a good job keeping you from crying,” Bucky mutters, handing Peter a cloth plucked from beneath the bar to wipe his face with. 

Peter laughs wetly. “Can’t kiss all my sadness away.” 

“Can sure as hell try,” Bucky says. His metal hand cups Peter’s chin with contradicting tenderness, cooler than skin. His eyes flutter closed on instinct, opening only when the older man pauses close enough that Peter can feel his warm breath against his face. Those eyes, the entire expression—it makes Peter feel like Bucky could swallow him whole. And Peter might like it. “Tell me if you want it.” 

“I want it,” Peter breathes. 

Bucky kisses him. The sound that slips past Peter’s lips is downright disgraceful, a needy desperate little thing that Bucky swallows, his metal thumb coming up to coax Peter’s jaw open. Peter’s only prior kiss was a girl in highschool, and it was nothing like this. That had been an anxious, quick thing, more time spent worrying about his breath and where to put his hands and how to turn his head so their noses wouldn’t touch than time spent actually kissing. This is a submersive experience. Nothing but Bucky exists, Bucky and his tender hand, the tongue that teases, the mouth that  _ sucks _ when Peter is brave enough to go exploring with his own. 

Eyes opening a fraction, his heart jerks in his chest because—

_ Tony _ . 

Tony stands having taken a few steps back, watching them with wide, wondrous eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows, Peter’s eyes tracking the movement. Why, Peter wonders, does the sight of Mr. Stark watching them make every last drop of blood in his body turn tail and head south? He can’t help but groan, letting his heavy lids fall shut again, neck going lax while Bucky kisses him deep and slow and filthy. 

Maybe they kiss for a minute or ten. Long enough for Peter’s tears to dry, for his cock to ache, for his lips to feel raw and swollen. When they part, Bucky’s eyes seem to burn, the thinnest sliver of silver corona around the aroused pupil—and then they flicker over Peter’s shoulder. Peter turns to see that Tony is lounging against the bar, face buried in his phone. He glances up at their movement and gives them a smile that is small but real and warm. 

“Coming up for air?” Tony asks. He slips his phone into his pocket. “Before you have Peter as desert on the dining room table, there is one more important item to discuss.” 

Peter’s head swims drunkenly. Fingers tighten at the nape of his neck where they are buried in his curls. They release in an instant—just an anxious reflex—but Peter’s eyes flutter anyway. How long has it been since he was touched? Mr. Rumlow. Before that? MJ and Ned, when they’d visited him over their semester break last year. Sometimes his skin downright itched, he was so desperate for someone to hug him, to put their hand on his shoulder. His heart would burst at the sound of Rumlow knocking on his door, just to feel human contact, just to feel wanted.

Shaking his head, Peter struggles to clear it. “Sorry Mr. Stark. What, what else is there?” 

“The matter of your destitution,” Tony says, taking his seat at the table again. His glass is full now, though Peter never heard him pour it. “Delicately put—you lack resources. I have an abundance of them. I’d like us to come to some sort of arrangement. Preferably one that doesn’t make me feel seedy, but even more importantly!—one that doesn’t make  _ you  _ feel trapped.” 

Peter blinks. “Trapped?” 

Tony clears his throat. His hands can’t seem to still, fiddling with the tumbler glass, adjusting where it rests on the napkin. Nervous ticks?, Peter wonders. What could a brilliant, powerful man like Tony Stark have to be worried about? “I wanted to invite you to move in to our penthouse; there’s plenty of room. But my better half over there told me that you might feel obliged to say yes even if you didn’t really want to. Or that saying yes might make it difficult for you to maintain your independence.” 

“You want me to  _ live with you? _ ” Peter can hear how his voice grows high towards the end. Even to his own ears, it sounds like hysteria. Maybe most of it is shock, but there’s a part of it (a frighteningly large part) that is... _ excited _ . This is young Peter’s dream, his idol asking him to live with him. Kid fantasies. Nothing that should ever be possible.

At his shrill voice, Tony winces. “Here’s what we want: your security ensured and your health maintained. Whatever it takes to see those things come to fruition. Our one request is that you don’t go back to Lafayette Hall. There are people there who would, who  _ are  _ taking advantage of you, kid. As it is, I have it under good authority that Lafayette Hall will be experiencing a change of management soon, but until it does, it would be a real comfort to Bucky and I to know that you aren’t vulnerable.” 

His face burns. It takes effort to swallow past the knot in his throat. “If I didn’t go back there, where else would I go?” 

“You’ve got options,” Bucky says, voice a warm, comforting timber from beside him. 

“One,” Tony says, holding up a finger. “I can set you up in a nice apartment close to campus. All amenities taken care of. I know the supers, very  _ hands off _ kinds of people. Two, I could set you up on a different floor in the Tower here. I have several that used to belong to the Avengers, but they come and go so sporadically now that there’s no sense in giving them their own permanent space. You’d be free to come and go from the Tower the way you would any apartment. It would be as much your home as ours.” 

“Or I could stay here with you?” Peter asks. 

“I’m prepared to have provide any legal requisite that would make you feel comfortable, so that you would know there’s no obligation to Bucky or to myself. I have lawyers at the Tower six days a week; they’d be more than glad to do paperwork that  _ prevents  _ me from potentially causing a legal scandal. For once.” 

“Mr. Stark, this is, that—it’s all more than generous. Not to sound like a broken record, I just don’t understand why,” Peter says. “Why me? Why would you spend so much money on me, if you aren’t getting anything in return?” 

If there’s one thing Peter has learned in life, it’s that no kindness is unconditional. Yet here Tony is trying to convince him of that very thing, that Peter can have his cake and eat it too, that there are no strings attached to this gift. Just a big, beautiful bow. 

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” says Tony. It’s too difficult to look away from his heated gaze. And Peter doesn’t want to. “ You’re intelligent, hardworking, kind. I was barely two of those things when I was your age, and I’ll let you decide which. I want to see you thrive kid, and if that means investing some—not even a fraction—of my resources, then it will be more than worth it. If nothing else, feel free to consider me a lecherous rich bastard who will sleep easier at night knowing he’s doing his civic duty.

“So what do you say, Pete? No need to break it to me gently, though there will be a mandatory period of forty-eight hours of sulking should you say no, just a warning, but don’t—” 

“Yes. Yes, absolutely,” Peter says, tucking his fingers beneath his thighs to keep from doing something embarrassing like clapping or throwing his arms around the man. He should say no. May never liked the idea of handouts. She was a proud woman who worked until she couldn’t stand anymore and had instilled in him the same work ethic. Would she be disappointed in him for taking this easy way out, for accepting generosity without giving Mr. Stark anything in return? 

If Peter lets himself wonder questions like that, then he’d never stop. 

“Yes?  _ Yes _ ? That was easy.”

“Tony’s used to people telling him no,” Bucky says slyly. 

“As they should,” says Tony, leaning back in his chair. It’s not hard to imagine that the smile on the older man’s face might be thanks to Peter, but it’s certainly hard enough to believe. “I was convinced I might have to beg you to take my money, kid. I’ve been turned down a few times in the name of pride.” 

Peter smiles, lips pressed together tight so that he doesn’t have to say anything like,  _ Don’t worry Mr. Stark, I have no pride. _

“You could have Sam’s floor, it’s right below this one, and he spends most of his time in DC anyway,” Bucky suggests. The man looks about as happy as Peter’s seen him. Something about his serious face isn’t made for smiling, the low brows and narrowed eyes and downturned lips, but his brow is smooth and the corners of his lips quirk upwards. 

“Oh, not here? Up here, I mean. With you two?” Peter cringes even as the words slip out. Of course they wouldn’t want him up here in their space, not when there were better options so close by. Still, an entire slideshow had played inside his brain of all the domestic activities they could get up to together: watching movies on the couch at night after Mr. Stark came home from work, cooking breakfast in the morning with Bucky at the stove. He should just be grateful, though. Grateful he’ll be in a place with food and heat and running water that doesn’t taste like iron and rust.

“Up here?” Tony asks. He claps his hands. “All the better. My lawyers will be here first thing in the morning to draw up a makeshift lease of sorts—anything to let you know that your security isn’t contingent on any relationship with us. But if you leave crumbs on my carpet, kid, I’ll throw you to the wolves I swear to—kidding! Jesus, Buck, don’t slap me with the metal hand.” 

“I can walk home tomorrow and grab my stuff,” Peter says, mind far away in the tiny apartment. All he’ll need is to fill his backpack with the few clothing items that he hasn’t worn to death, the picture of Ned and MJ, May and Ben’s and his parents’ wedding rings, his school books. He could pack up his entire life into one bag, which is both a little sad and a godsend. Peter hates moving.

“Take one of my cars; I have plenty of them.” Tony stands from the table and holds out a hand. When Peter takes it, it’s warm and calloused. They shake, but it isn’t enough, no amount of gratitude can be poured from palm to palm. Peter rounds the table and wraps his arms around the man’s waist, smelling cologne and sharp alcohol, feeling Tony arms carefully come down around him. When the man speaks, it rumbles through Peter’s own body. “Lovely doing business with you, Mr. Parker. Saturday is for chores and Sunday is funday.” 

“I’m really good at doing dishes,” Peter grins. 

“That’s what the dishwasher is for, kid. Unless you’re Bucky who likes to do them by hand.” They pull away and Tony smiles down at him, and Peter thinks that maybe things are actually getting better. Maybe all those prayers he made finally reached up through the clouds and were heard and answered. Maybe he’s suffered enough, and the universe is finally giving him some good karma. “You know,” Tony says. He winks at Bucky. “I think this business deal could absolutely be sealed by a kiss—” 

“Tony,” Bucky sighs. 

“Good idea,” Peter says brightly. He shifts up onto his toes, letting his eyes fall shut as he presses a chaste kiss to Tony’s mouth—

What he wasn’t expecting was for Mr. Stark to pull away the way he does, to turn his head so that the kiss falls on his whiskered cheek. When Peter blinks up at him, he can’t understand the shocked, no, the horrified expression on the older man’s face. 

“Kid—I meant you and Bucky,” Tony says. “This thing—between you two?  _ I’m not included _ .” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is *fart noise*. talk to me on tumblr @ cagestark


End file.
